Use Somebody
by luft
Summary: It was not love that led them to this, but passion. Two separate emotions that were mutually exclusive. They had to convince themselves so.
1. Chapter 1

**Note:** _Just an idea that came to mind after watching some episodes of season 10. I'm still not sure where to take this, though. First time doing an R piece! It's not about what happens in the show, but about what could happen given our imagination...characters are not mine, as we all know... =p thank you for the reviews, it means a lot to me =) xx  
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At the back of his mind, he knew what he was doing was wrong. He knew that he should not be there, it was not his house, his bed, his woman. It should not be his hands on her hips, his lips on hers, trailing kisses down her neck. It should not be his name that she was whispering, urging him to put his hands _there_ and hold her just so. He should not be here, and they should not be doing this.

He knew that she knew it too, but she showed no sign of stopping, urging him on with frantic kisses, low moans and breathing his name over and over. As though she wanted to assure him that she knew what she was doing, and who it was she was with. Her way of assaying both their guilt.

Neither was sure how they got to this stage. It started off with a few simple questions- "What are you doing here?", "Are you two really married?". He had asked in jest, and just wanted to get to know his former partner and friend again. She had been gone an awful long time, and in those months he had learnt to live without her, she was pushed to the periphery of his life, hearing only snippets of information once in a while as to how she was doing.

He never thought that his innocent question would lead to this - she had taken it more seriously than he had intended. It led her to think, and finally confront the worries that she had relegated to the back of her mind. She remembered a conversation from long ago - her husband had accused her of never going through a day without rationalisation. And that was exactly what she did when her husband had refused to give up his current position in Paris to join her back in Las Vegas - the only place both of them had ever called home. She came up with reasons, backed up by 'evidence' - he had a successful career there as a lecturer, he had not been this happy in a long time. And whatever made him happy, made her happy. Apparently, that was part of what being married was about...

So why was she here, in Vegas, the place she was dying to escape a year or so before? She could blame it on the Crime Lab being shorthanded. She could blame it on her waiting for their research grant to be approved. She could blame it on Parisian food not agreeing with her, on being stuck in a country whose language she did not yet speak and whose people she could not yet understand. Or that she was bored with not doing anything but read in cafes and parks. Whatever it was, her mind refused to entertain that growing unease in her heart, and the ache that loneliness brought about, and she continued to smile and happily talk about her marriage. She had waited so long for this, had wanted him for most of the last decade. The bittersweet journey ending in a blissful union as man and wife.

But what comes after the happily ever after was not something she had expected. How exactly does the relationship move on after a decade of chasing each other? What do you do after you've reached the finishing line?

And now here she was, in their old home, where everywhere she looked was a memory of their life together, in the arms of another man. Oh, the guilt was definitely there. But so was the passion, and how she missed that intensity, that indescribable emotion, the feeling of being alive and young and free! That was it, she thought. She was only in her mid-thirties, married for a few months, yet she felt as though her life had reached a standstill. That energy and spark, that wild spirit that she was had been tamed, and the happiness and love that she had longed for had trapped her in its snare.

They did not start the way most affairs started. It did not begin with a 'let's hang out as friends' date, nor did it involve any inhibition-lowering alcohol. It did not involve any tragic incident that required the one to seek comfort in the other, nor an overlooked admirer finally convincing the object of his affection of his merits. If they were both to be truthful, they could not come up with a good justification for this, for them. Certainly they could not -would not say that it was because of love.

They would usually have both gone their separate ways, wishing each other goodnight as they walked to their cars and drove to their own homes, waking up the next morning repeating their usual routines. But for a fraction of a second, when usually he would push his emotions down, his strange infatuation for her, his growing loneliness and sexual frustrations that came with his job, and when she would push aside her own loneliness and desires, and that strange longing she had whenever she was with him. A look that lasted a moment too long, a hug and a kiss on the cheek that lingered more than it should had led them both here - in her old townhouse, on her old bed, with an old friend.

He looked no different from when she last saw him, but he had changed. They had both grown up together, and mellowed down together. She was calmer, no longer angry and short-tempered, just as how he was no longer as childish and innocent. His hair was shorter, more natural than she had remembered it ever to be. She on the other hand, looked softer, gentler and more settled than when he first saw her. Certainly she smiled more, even more so with him.

There was nothing soft, gentle or settled about the way they were now, however. They did not have the time to come up with expectations, all they knew was their own need and desires, the here and the now, and taking them from the other. Hands on hips, lips on lips, tongues tasting skin and the caress of fingertips -He pushed her against the wall, she raked her fingers down his back. Shirts unbuttoned and hurriedly thrown on the floor. His warm breath and the flick of his tongue down her neck. Her low moans and hands in his hair, on his chest down his torso. Belts unbuckled, zippers and trousers pulled down in a hurry -She pushed him onto the bed, he flipped her on her back and pinned her down. His lips on black lace. Her hands on-

A low groan escaped his lips.

Black lace and blue cotton. Skin on skin. Her name on his lips, and his name on hers. Brown eyes met brown.

Two friends becoming lovers.


	2. Chapter 2

Without so many words, they came up with their own rules. Never at work - if they transgressed, they not only risk blurring the lines between their 'real' lives and this unacknowledged affair, but also being caught. No one must know. Always take separate cars -the only time they should be alone together was in the bedroom, or in the field. Never stay the night - either would wake up the next day finding their bed empty. Sometimes a cigarette was shared, sometimes a beer. Never wine -wine meant romance, and acknowledging that this was more than just fulfilling lust and desire would lead them down a slippery slope into heartbreak that they both could not take. Never put their relationship in words, never speak of it. Always, always use a condom, no matter the moment. It doesn't matter if she was on birth control - he was not entitled to shed that last barrier between her and him, the ring on her finger a glinting, dull gold reminder of where they stood.

And never, ever fall in love.

They spent their free nights after shift, when she was not in Paris, going through this routine. A simple touch or a look after work, and they would soon find themselves at his place - or hers- dancing to the tune of their desires. At first, they would wait until the door was closed. Then one night, he grabbed her as they were going up the stairs to her townhouse, pulling her towards him and kissing her senseless. They barely made it to the door. The next night they were together, he took her there and then in the dark of his staircase landing. Some nights later, he found her climbing into the driver's side of his car as he pulled into her driveway, straddling him, leaving her with a bruise on her back from his steering wheel.

They were hardly gentle with each other, and she would not have it any other way. She needed to distinguish him from her husband, she needed to distance their sex from the lovemaking she shared with Gil. Only then could they both fool themselves that she was not being unfaithful, he was not cuckolding his former boss and mentor, and this was nothing more than just fucking.

They were cutting it dangerously close tonight, he knew, as he softly bit her neck, causing her to let out a low growl. She dug her nails into his chest as she nimbly undid the buttons on his shirt. It was not his fault, he argued - show him a man who could resist a woman breathing huskily into his ear, telling him that she needed him _now_ as she slid her hands up and down his thigh, and he would show you a liar. Or Elton John. He could barely keep his hands off her as he followed her to the darkened shower room, the only place in the lab where one could get some privacy.

Within minutes, he found himself half-naked in the last shower stall, his white striped shirt discarded on the floor, fingernail marks all over his chest. He kissed her roughly, and his hands roamed up and down her jean-clad thighs as she undid her own buttons. He smirked into the kiss, and he wondered at the back of his mind if she was as impatient to feel his skin on hers as she was with her other lover. He mentally shook the thought out of his head - right now, all he wanted was to feel the soft lace of her bra on his skin, her hands tugging his hair as he trailed his lips down her neck to the top of her breasts, her legs wrapping around his, her pelvis pushed against his hardened self.

She had managed to control her desires since the start of their trysts, confining them to their personal space outside of work, but she found herself losing that self-control with each night they spent together. She blamed it on being miles away from her legitimate lover, being denied human contact and an outlet for her sexual frustrations. She blamed it on the stress of her job, on the emotional vulnerability certain cases put her in, and today's was an exceptionally emotional one. She blamed it on him - every time she was partnered to work with him, she was overwhelmed by his scent and the ghost of his touch. Smell brings back powerful memories, Gil had once told her. She laughed inwardly at the irony, here she was thinking of her husband as she fumbled with her lover's belt buckle, her hand purposely grazing his erection, her tongue flickering down his neck, his chest, the trail of fine dirty-blonde hair on his torso, a dull ache growing between her thighs.

He let out a small gasp as he felt the warmth and wetness of her mouth as her hands gripped and dug into the soft flesh of his ass..he wanted more than anything to feel her but could only run his fingers roughly through her hair. It surprised him the first time she went down on him; he did not think that she had it in her. Her getting married, her softer demeanour, he figured she would be much more timid and conventional. Then again, this was the woman who fucked her way to the mile high club. Certainly he could not picture her treating his aging ex-boss the way she was treating him now. He did not think the older, refined man could survive the scratches, the bruising, the dirty fuck in the stairway, in the car, the uncouthness of her kneeling between his legs, his dick in her mouth.

A frustrated groan slipped out of his lips as she stood up to face him, and he pushed her back against the wall. She stared at him, and pulled his hands to her hips, to the heat between her thighs. He could taste himself on her lips, and quickly his hands undid her zipper. He smirked in satisfaction as she moaned his name when he slipped his hand underneath the damp fabric of her simple thong, his lips sucking on the soft swell of her breasts, her hardened nipples straining against the lace of her bra. She slid her hands down his torso, one hand on his ass while the other tugging on the coarse hairs and his privates, hissing desperately in his ear -_Take the fucking bra off now and fuck me already, Greg_. There was no one else in that moment except the two of them, and he could forget the existence of her husband, his was the only name on her lips tonight.

It was _his_ name that she cried out as she shuddered to a sweet, agonising stop under _his_ warm, sweat-drenched, satisfied body.

She placed her head on his shoulder as she let her breathing slow down, feeling the hardness of muscle underneath his taut, almost-smooth skin, so different from the softer, gentler feel of her husband's body. His rough hands absentmindedly caressed her back, and his usual scent -crisp, fresh, like newly-laundered clothes- lingered on her skin, mixed with the musk of their affair. A cold, dull ache made itself felt at the bottom of their stomachs as they took in the last lingering moments of tonight, as they schooled themselves into cool indifference and take their leave of each other.

In the heat of the moment, both Sara and Greg had forgotten about rule number one - never at work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Note:**_ Oft in the night when you live it up I'm off to sleep.._

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Sara sat on the edge of her bed, a hand on her forehead, the other cradling her telephone. The emptiness of their townhouse engulfed her in its large, cold embrace. She rested her head on her free hand, the other still clutching her phone, the lifeline of her relationship with Grissom. If Nick, Catherine or Ray had found it odd that she still referred to him as 'Grissom', they did not mention it to her. She smirked bitterly at that thought - some great investigators they were. But even now, even after years of being in a relationship, the sound of his name -Gil- felt strange on her tongue. He had spent so many years being just Grissom to her, and every time she called him that it reminded her that she was on the outside, looking into that enticing picture that was his affections.

Now, she was part of that picture, the woman who would be by his side in that window-display of true love that had endured the test of a decade, of several other women and men, his hearing loss, a lab explosion, a DUI, her meltdown and several murderous psychopaths, among other things. After all the horrific, hostile situations they've been through, it seemed a bit cruel that their downfall came in the form of a friend.

He noticed, she knew he noticed the moment she referred to him as 'Grissom'. He sauntered in, his bright brown eyes shining, his hair shorter than she remembered it to be. He opened his arms to her right away, and she found herself falling readily into his warm honesty. He wore a jacket, made casual by the plain t-shirt underneath. He smelled of fresh laundry, and in an instant she knew how much she missed him. He teased her, about being tired of being happy and married, and she laughed it off. But his words found the worry that she was trying to keep from surfacing in her heart, and she hastily came up with the reasons as to why she was here. She knew that he knew she had rationalised and rehearsed the answers, anticipating one of her former colleagues and friends to ask her what he just asked. She should have known, that of all of her former colleagues to have noticed the cracks that even she was uncertain were there, it would have been Greg.

Greg Sanders whom she trusted with her smile, her laughter, her happiness. Greg, whom she could carry out a conversation with about anything and everything, whom she did not feel nervous around and worry that he would misconstrue her meanings - and then turn them back on her and hurt her with it. Greg, whose name, whose kisses and taste felt right at home on her tongue. Intelligent, handsome, youthful Greg -

She felt like a right dirty ol' Mrs. Robinson.

She rubbed her face with her free hand, her death grip on the phone still unrelenting. It was almost dawn in Las Vegas, and she had just said goodbye to her husband on the phone, a few thousand kilometers away. It was unnerving, how she was able to lie to him with such ease, place the right inflections in her voice, pause at the right moments to convey the right emotions. The absence of words remotely hinting at her infidelity on her tongue, while the taste of his skin still lingered there. Her laugh gave nothing away. She could talk about her day at work, about her colleagues, about _him_ with ease. A small hint of pride in her voice as she related to her husband on her lover's and former student's improved performance in the field, and then casually moving on to Nick's promotion, or Ray Langston the new CSI -Miss Sidle certainly played the part of the innocent very well.

It was currently afternoon in Paris, and she imagined him walking from the Sorbonne to his favourite cafe in the nearby Quartier Latin, ordering his usual afternoon snack, _un caffe et croissant, s'il vous plaît, _his accent plainly American. She could see the buildings in her mind's eye, grey stone and blue roofs, the carts selling old books, postcards, memories along the Seine. The grey majesticity of the Gothic Notre Dame, the pompous Louvre a mixture of the old and new, the Eiffel tower that can still draw gasps from even the most jaded of travellers with its twinkling lights at night, and the Taj Mahal of Europe - the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur. The myriad of souvenir shops for the tourists, the cat from the _Le Chat Noir _posters glaring at every passer-by. The windmill of the Moulin Rouge, the neon lights of the cabarets and the sex clubs of Pigalle reminding her so much of Vegas. The stench of urine in the Metro, the sidewalks littered with dog shit. She loved the city for all it stood for, just like how she loved her husband for all he stood for.

It was living these ideals that she found difficult.

She never thought that she would be the one who would hurt and deceive him. It just did not seem possible. In their relationship, he always had the control, her heart had been in his hands to do as he pleased. She was the quiet, hopeful, self-destructive mouse strung along by the playfully cruel predator, her very own _chat noir_. She had excused his transgressions with other women during their seven fucking years of non-relationship. How many nights had she gone home alone, with the bitter knowledge that he was spending time with Teri, Sofia, Heather, while her own sacrifice of moving from California to Vegas was overlooked. The only difference between his other women and her other man was that they were now officially supposed to be faithful. It did not matter that they've loved each other from the first time they've met - they were only meant to be exclusive when there was a ring on their fingers.

Maybe she had not forgiven him for all those wasted years as she thought she had. Maybe she had not yet exonerated her demons. Maybe she needed proof of his love that was greater than having him track her through the jungles of Costa Rica.

Maybe no proof of his love could be big enough.

She threw the phone onto her bed, and got up to take a bath - no a shower. She did not want to soak in the stain of her illicit relationship, or the memory of being in Paris, the ghost of her husband's caresses, or the recent scent of fresh laundry and musk. She needed to wash those two men off of her, her husband and his suffocating love from across the country and the Pacific; Greg Sanders and his..his...she remembered one of their rules: never put their relationship in words.

As the too-warm water scalded her skin, she wondered how long the three of them would be trapped in this _danse macabre, _how long till the beautiful, haunting music fade out into black.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note:** _thanks again for the reviews. I'm just letting this go wherever it takes me, and I'm glad you guys are enjoying the journey thus far. _

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A few weeks after her arrival, she had taken a week off to visit her husband back in Paris. He took the news as nonchalantly as he could, casually asking her to send Grissom his regards, and to bring back a few Parisian goodies for him when she came back, his voice barely laced with sarcasm. She had smiled, a hint of mockery, nodded her head and left without so much as a goodbye. He looked around the break room where they were all gathered and silently let out a sigh of relief - the others had yet to notice.

He had to admit, things were not as they used to be. The hectic pace, the myriad of faces that had come and gone during the past two years since she'd left, had fractured the team in ways that they could not see. With Warrick gone, Nick had been quieter and more reserved, as though afraid of building up another friendship with his colleagues, only to have that person leave his life - be it on their own accord, or at the hands of another. There was less laughter and joking around from him now. It did not help that Catherine, having lost not only her father, her could-have-been lover but also her best friend in the past years, was having a tough time facing the upcoming loss of her daughter as well, as she slowly counted the months to her turning 18. Even the new guy, Ray, had his fair share of emotional baggage, having been betrayed by a former colleague in his previous profession. Greg looked at the motley crew assembled in the break room -_Dr. Phil would have a field day with us_. The only people who seemed to still retain a sense of camaraderie and trust amongst each other were the lab techs, and the two wonderfully weird workers of the morgue.

He had always wondered how both of them had managed to maintain their marriage for so long. They seemed to be the only two in the entire graveyard shift who led a semblance of a normal life - a steady marriage with a loving spouse. Maybe it was something about working with the dead that made them treasure the living, or see the less serious side in life. _Well_, he mused, _he is called SuperDave for a reason_. Warrick and Catherine had both taken a stab at their own happily ever after, and look how that turned out. And now here he was, putting a knife through the heart of Sara's attempt at happiness.

His Papa Olaf used to tell him, you lie in the bed you make. And what he and Sara were making was their very own bed of blood-red roses -with thorns intact, sharp and aplenty. The intrigue and secrecy was sensual, the sex passionate and oftentimes downright dirty, and at times thinking about their torrid affair drove him pretty crazy with desire. The attraction, however, was - he did not know what it was.

If she felt something more than just lust and sexual attraction to him, she did not show it. At work, she was ever the professional, and they hardly talked about anything but the case. Once in a while, he felt compelled to mention Grissom to her, to see if he could get a rise out of her, any sort of reaction to confirm his suspicions that he was more than just a human sex toy to her - but his Sara new how to keep her cool. The boys of the crime lab did not secretly dub her the ice queen for no reason. With a small slightly mocking smile and a vague, alluding-to-happiness answer, she would change the subject back to a piece of evidence she found. It never went beyond the surface. Whatever she was feeling, he could not see that scratch on the smooth icy surface. Where her feelings are concerned, she was still a fucking frozen slab of ice.

It did not surprise him that he ended up here after the second time she left, at the French Palace, with his buddies of old, revisiting their Pay Day Friday tradition. He took a swig of his whiskey and watched the nubile and almost-naked bodies of the strippers wrap themselves around the pole. His buddies let out low wolf-whistles and cat-calls, letting themselves be animals for a night, pawing to place the dollar bills where they wished. He smiled lazily and leaned back into his seat as a particularly buxom bottle blonde thrust her hips in slow circles in front of him. "You like what you see?" she purred at him as she almost-straddled him, running her hands up and down her own glistening body. He downed the rest of his stiff drink. "You want to take this somewhere more..private?"

They were not even in a room, and they were definitely not somewhere private. Quiet, yes. Deserted, yes. Dark, yes. Private? A back alley behind a strip club can hardly be called private. After years working this job, he knew that this particular place had as much privacy as the urinals in the men's bathroom. But he had no intention of bringing her home into his personal space and making her mean something. He just needed her, needed her body to replace the memory of another's. Her hair was different - long, straight and bleach blonde. She was petite, barely 5"3. She definitely has had implants, something he was silently thankful for. She felt different, tasted different, she did not smell of Sara. He closed his eyes as he opened his body, his anger and his frustrations up to her. She seemed to enjoy it, his roughness and anger. Or maybe it was just her professionalism. After all, it was her job to like him.

5412 miles away, she was -probably, he thought- currently in bed with _him_. He tried not to think of what she sounded like, her soft moan as he kissed her neck, her low growl as he gently bit her nipple, her whimpers as he toyingly caressed her sex, her surprisingly high-pitched delirium when she came. He tried not to think of the heady beauty of her current situation, probably on a comfortable king-sized bed in a luxurious apartment somewhere in downtown Paris, with her own view of the Eiffel Tower and the Seine and all the other landmarks of the freakin' city of romance out her window. Strawberries, chocolate truffles, champagne -hell, throw in fireworks and violins why don't you, it _is_ Paris -and his imagination- after all. While they slowly make sweet, legitimate love to the romance-and-beauty capital of the world, he was in a dank deserted alleyway behind a strip club fucking a silicone-enhanced stripper.

His grunts became louder as he thrust himself harder, harder -fuck yeah harder, as his thoughts ran as wild as his need. He was angry, somewhere behind the fog of his quiet rage and arousal, his rational mind tried to make him realise the absurdity of the situation. That confusion and slightly sick feeling in his stomach -it was guilt. Guilt for cheating on the woman who was using him to cheat on her husband.

And that anger he felt - it was really just jealousy.

Through the deafening crash of realisation, he heard the stripper's genuine whimpers of pleasure mixed with a large amount of pain.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes:** _waging war to shape the poet and the beat.

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Up in the sky, in between two continents, she was anonymous. She smiled at the family seated on her right, at the little girl fast asleep with her head on her mother's lap. She was relatively friendly to the flight attendant, as she requested for her vegetarian meal and a glass of red wine. She carried out polite conversation in French with the excited grandmother flying home from seeing her newborn grandson. She read her novel. She let the other passengers formulate her identity, while she gave nothing away. She was a corporate executive on a trans-Atlantic business trip, a woman headed for a relaxing holiday, visiting friends or family in the Old Continent. Single, and probably hoping to find love. They could tell from the absence of a ring on her finger and any mention of a man in her conversation.

For those almost-14 hours she was free. She was nobody's wife or girlfriend, no man's property. In the air floating through identities.

Fourteen hours later, she, however, found herself slipping into the role of Sara Sidle, wife of Dr. Gilbert Grissom, as easily as slipping the ring back onto her finger. She found herself falling into a comfortable familiarity of the scent of ivory soap and the slight prickling of his beard. His softer body blanketing her in a hug, and she found herself genuinely smiling as she looked into those blue eyes she knew so well. They left Charles-de-Gaulle Airport hand-in-hand, a perfect picture of the happy, respectable middle-aged couple. A strong, quiet love that brought a smile to a jaded passer-by's face.

"How was the flight?" He asked as they drove through the traffic made crazy by French driving.

"Good, uneventful. Food was alright, no crying babies this time round. I even managed to finish my novel and catch some sleep." She smiled a small smile at him.

It was a rather ridiculous arrangement, if she did say so herself. Her flying back and forth. She wondered why it was that he did not offer to come visit her in Vegas, or anywhere in the States for that matter. Why was she the one always chasing after him? First, she moved halfway across the States for him. Now, she's moving halfway across the world. At one point of time in her life, she would have moved across the universe for him.

And she thought she had more dignity than that.

His Parisian townhouse was uncannily similar to the one in Vegas. Dark wood furnishing, somewhat modern and Zen-like. His butterfly cases decorated the walls, along with other unsavoury bugs that she did not really care to see displayed. His penchant for classical music blended in nicely with the stately, refined old-world charm of his neighbourhood in Trocadéro, near the Eiffel Tower and Pallais de Chaillot. Despite the peace and security of his rather upper-middle-class metropolitan neighbourhood, she felt ill-at-ease. Unlike him, she felt like the proverbial bull in this china-shop of romantic urban respectability.

They made love on the bed after she had settled in and unpacked her suitcase. They cuddled for a while afterwards, still in bed, and made small talk. He got up to use the bathroom. She got up and in the absence of cigarettes, took her coffee on the balcony.

It was undoubtedly a beautiful sight. The rows of townhouses along the street, the cars parked in the tiny strip of parking lot that separated the lanes on the road. Chic women and men walking their dogs. The occasional cyclists -usually students, or struggling Bohemian types, only able to afford the tiny rooms in the top floors of buildings like their's. Formerly servants' quarters for the rich Parisian families of old. A shared bathroom and French-style toilet for the entire floor, no lifts, just seven flights of stairs. The difference was appalling.

She wondered if Gil knew of his neighbours as she did. Probably not.

The exquisite, bitter taste of his fancy Italian coffee masked the not-as-pleasant, bitter taste of -something else, she was not quite sure what- on her tongue. Their recent lovemaking was still on her mind, and now, left alone, she found her mind pulling back center stage all those thoughts she had pushed to the wings. There was a sense of relief, followed by cold disappointment. She was married to a former top investigator, able to spot an iota of guilt on a suspect. Yet when it came to her, his wife_, _he hardly had a clue. She supposed it was unfair of her to expect him to pick up on her guilt and latent unhappiness right away. It was unfair of her to blame him for not knowing she had been having an affair. It was absurd, really. The whole point was for him not to know. Yet, she had expected him to read her hieroglyphics. If he really loved her, if he really knew her, he would know right away. She clearly needed to clear her mind.

She knocked on the bathroom door, and told her husband that she was going for a walk. He replied with an OK and without questions.


	6. Chapter 6

**Note:** _Got carried away by Paris here for a while..sorry about that! And thanks once again for reviewing =)_

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Summer in Paris is every romantic's dream. The sun set noticeably later, and the extended daylight gave the people an excuse for picnics on the numerous gardens around the city, or dining al fresco in cafes and restaurants alike. Being outdoors seemed to be on everybody's agenda today, and Sara found herself being swallowed up by the crowd, another face in a sea of faces.

She loved walking in this city, something she never did in Vegas. She especially loved walking in the cemeteries here, some of them interring people famous enough to warrant pilgrimages from tourists all over the world. But Sara did not care for who the dead were. Sure, on a few occasions, she found an inexplicable sorrow and curiosity when reading the names, especially those who died young, long ago. Who were they, what did they die of? But the scientist in her would take over, and any nostalgia at a little girl gone after two years would be replaced by words like "lack of proper sanitation and medical facilities". It was not the names on the headstones that brought her there.

For a girl from the desert, the lush greenery seemed older than the blackened stones, the stone angels looking up to heavens, the Virgin Mary wearing a look of sorrow as ancient as death. The worms have eaten away the bodies below, but time was kinder to their stone reflections. She wondered, what pride man must have, to erect such huge edifices that would outlast even their engraved names. She would want to be cremated herself, have her ashes scattered somewhere, the Nevada desert maybe, or the ocean back in California. She did not want her dead body occupying space on this earth when her soul no longer did, and she was not sure if there would be anyone in her life left who would be visiting her grave.

She was a few years shy of forty, childless, her father was dead, her brother - she had no idea where he was, or if he was still alive. Her mother was incarcerated. She was in a May-December relationship with a man who would more than likely leave her first, and a.._May-August? Greg was only three years younger_..affair, which was doomed from their first kiss. No, when she died, she would leave no trace of Sara Sidle on this earth. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, that's all we really are.

She should have gone to Passy, it was closer to their home, but she took the Metro down to Père-Lachaise. She took the path away from the rock and roll angst of the Jim Morrison fans, the various music fans visiting Chopin, Edith Piaf. She passed by the intellectual-wannabes and literature student-types paying homage to Oscar Wilde, and walked slowly up the hill. She liked it there, Paris' biggest cemetery, their mortality overlooking the city.

A bench under the shade of a tree. She sat down, and slowly eased her mind into her surroundings. There were two old women on the bench beside her, one in a dark purple wool cardigan, another in brown, talking leisurely as only the elderly could. She lit up a cigarette. A lone young woman walked by, a hand in her strikingly bright red summer coat, a map in the other hand. Tourist. She looked at Sara, smiled, lit up her own cigarette, and continued on her way. It was slightly chilly up on the hill, despite the sun. One could feel the wind much more up here than below in the city.

She would have to make her way back home for dinner, Gil was surely expecting her then.

Up here on this hill, she was supposed to think of her situation, to clear her mind and come up with a solution. But she did not know where to start. What was she supposed to clear her mind off? What solution was she supposed to come up with, and to what problem?

She took a long drag, remembering the last cigarette she had. She was on another balcony a continent away. She had on her cream-coloured robe, the one with the flowers that she liked much better than the black one. She had it tied on loosely, and it was slipping off her right shoulder. She was taking a drag when she felt his lips lightly graze her exposed skin. His hands slid down to her waist, his body barely touching hers. He stopped when she exhaled, and reached out for his turn on their cigarette, smirking at the desire he had stirred up in her.

She had promised Gil when they got married that she would quit. And after his last doctor's appointment, she had not wanted to subject him to her second-hand smoke. It was a silent problem in their relationship, his health. They never discussed it, but the fact was that he was on a short path towards age-related diseases, while she was still hiding under the cover of somewhat youthful optimism regarding life.

The age difference never really bothered her before. She had always longed for him, even when she was dating and sleeping with men her age. She still believed that love is blind. She did not care if he was sixteen years her senior, or if his hair was graying, or if he had a softer and bigger middle than Greg. His physical appearance never bothered her, it never mattered. It still didn't. After all, as her eyes swept in her surroundings, the physical body is but a vessel for the soul. If you loved the soul, the person, the mind, you would end up loving the body. And she loved Gil Grissom, there was no denying that.

So why was she comparing their lovemaking to her indiscretion with Greg?

She stubbed her cigarette and fished out another. The tiny burst of flame brought her attention to her rather chilly hands. It was still light out, but the sun was gradually waning. She stood up to walk.

Her mind tried to rationalise her predicament. Of course it was natural for her to compare Grissom _-I mean Gil_- to Greg. She was conducting the same experiment using two different variables. But she had promised herself when starting the affair that she would separate the two. That they would not overlap and enter the same space in her life. Yet, she found that she had to double-check that she had the correct name on her tongue today. Gil, Gil, Gil. She found herself chanting his name over and over, to make sure she got it right, to apologise for that split second when she almost said Greg.

Just like her wedding, _I do - I do! I do!_

If she stuck by her rationale that only if you love the soul, would you love the body, then would it mean that if she loved the body, she already has loved the person? But that's absurd..she can think of a few bodies that she wouldn't mind luvin' without knowing a damn cent's worth of the person. Celebrities, singers, athletes, male models... Perfect, tanned, sculpted, lust-inducing bodies that did not have an ounce of charisma, of the fine burn scar tissue on his back from the lab explosion -he was such an earnest, sweet, shy albeit crazy boy with horrible dress sense back then. She was so worried that he would not recover-, occasional freckles on his skin, pale torso with sleeve tan-lines on his arms -due to his penchant for t-shirts over dress-shirts when out in the field, the Nevada sun being too hot for such things he said-, the fading scar down his chest from the surgery after his beating -back then, it was the most helpless she has ever felt- the fine, dirty-blonde hairs on his arms, his torso, the happy trail that she loved to lick and kiss leading down to his groin -he always made the same guttural growl when she did, despite knowing and anticipating what came next-

She knew every scar on his body and the history that came with it. She knew every spot where he liked to be touched, and the sounds he made when he was enjoying it, or when he wanted her to move along. She knew when he was happy, she knew what every smile meant. She knew the slump of his shoulders when he was disappointed, defeated, down. She knew the anger that blazed in his eyes sometimes. She knew to tell his mood from his walks, the quick, tense steps from the leisurely strides from the hurried paces. He -his body- was a story she loved, one she could read as well as she can her own.

The stub of her long-gone cigarette fell to the ground.

No, this was not love, this, this, this _thing _they had was just that, a thing. And now, she was miles away. The two circles in this Venn diagram of her life should remain separate and apart. A tale of two cities, never the twain shall meet, that sort of thing..

Her cellphone vibrated. A text from her husband. She felt a pang of guilt, the first since she arrived. He wanted to have dinner, half-past seven, at a _bistrot _in Champs-Elysées. Nothing too fancy. She replied that she would meet him outside the Métro station.

She found herself in the lazy mid-afternoon sun -it was already 6 in the evening- staring at the giant slab of Oscar Wilde's memorial stone, the angel complete with new silver genitalia, the stone covered in a thousand lipstick-kisses. To her right was the girl with the red coat. In front of her was a quote.

"The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold." It was signed by Natalie, 26.04.07. I love you.

Strange, how someone can fall completely in love with a stranger because of the story they tell.

Sara felt the girl in the red coat stare at her staring at the quote. She came over, took a look, read the lines. "The curves of your lips rewrite history." She said softly, more to herself than to Sara. She took her camera out, and snapped a picture of the quote. She gave her the same smile.

"When the Gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers. An ideal husband. Oscar Wilde. Thought you might understand it." She walked off.

Sara stared at the giant stone covered in a thousand lipstick-kisses. She bent down and added one of her own.


	7. Chapter 7

**Note:**_ Countless lovers under cover of the street_

* * *

She seemed to have a special arrangement in her contract, allowing her to take a week off every month. She was never gone longer, but she never arrived earlier either. By her second trip to Paris, they at the Crime Lab knew to accept the routine. 3 weeks with Sara, one week without.

For Greg, it was 3 weeks with Sara, one week with Tiffany, Amber, Roxanne, Cherry, Starr with two 'r's, Josie and Carmen.

He came home late that morning, after losing himself to another nameless blonde in his growing string of nameless blondes. He avoided the brunettes and even the red-heads - he remembered how her hair looked slightly coppery in the sun. He took a cold shower, the sun was scorching down on Vegas. He wished he was in Paris, he had read on the internet that the summers there were cooler.

Yes, he had spent a night searching the net for inane information on Paris. On restaurants and parks, weather conditions and television programmes, wines and cuisine, libraries and museums and cafes, places he thought she might visit. He imagined her in the pictures he saw, taking her to dinner in the restaurants he read about. Hell he even found where she was staying at and the Metro station nearest to her house! He embarked on learning the language, just to be closer to her. He experimented with french cooking and wine. He was almost memorising the Metro map before he realised how insane that would make him. A stalker, almost.

He knew he had changed, somehow. He was quieter in his work. He cracked less jokes, and recently he found himself distancing from her. He would work cases without her, or spend as little time as he could with her if they did. It was getting harder for him to be around her and remain objective, remain calm, without wanting to shake her and ask her what the fuck was going on between them. Because despite the cold shoulder, he knew he would come crawling back to her at the end of shift when she gave him _that_ look. Either that, or he would find her leaning on his car, and he would feel his anger intensify in the face of his infatuation with her, eventually leading to them having rough sex in his car in the deserted alleyway near the crime lab.

He threw on his sleepwear boxers and fell onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. He had not thought of the consequences when they took their first kiss. In fact, he did not think at all. He was just..being a guy. Letting his dick do the thinking. And look where that got him. Here he was, fucking around with strange blonde women because he needed to prove to himself that he was not alone. That he was not like the rest of them, like Nick, Catherine, Ray, going home to a bed too big, too cold, too empty. That he could still have any woman that he wanted. That Sara Sidle -did she take on Grissom's name?- did not mean a damn thing. He laughed at his predicament. This was the most sex he was having in years, and he was nowhere near happy. He knew for a fact that Nick would have traded him anything to be in his pants over his current loveless and sexless life.

Scratch that - he was loveless too.

He pushed the covers away, the day was too hot for them. He was not a big fan of air-conditioning, preferring to sleep with his windows open or with a fan. After spending hours in the sometimes too-cold and too-stale air of the lab, he preferred a gentle breeze to lull him to sleep.

But the breeze did not come, and his fan was not producing much either. He tossed and turned, frustrated. She was coming back tomorrow, he had realised. His second Sara-free week had been relatively peaceful. He worked his cases, had a laugh and a few beers with Nick and sometimes Ray, and had sex with random women only twice before tonight. That was how much he needed to get her out of his system. It had been a pretty small triumph, but a victory over his ever-growing confusion nonetheless.

Could you really feel the absence of something that was not there in the first place? Greg was never one for pondering such thoughts. He had tried to live his life in the simplest of ways as possible. Growing up an only child in a fairly well-to-do family sheltered him from a lot of hurt. He was somewhat of a genius, and that saved him from the academic and emotional struggles of college that a lot of his peers went through. His status as a genius geek also ensured that he was romantically stunted till quite late in life. Unlike probably more than half the people in this country, he lost his virginity when he was already into adulthood. Even then, he kept with him a naive optimism and simplicity when it came to relationships. Honesty with your partner. Be sweet to her, treat her like a princess. Phone calls to say I Love You during the day. Puppy love. He did not really think, till this day, that he had experienced his first real heartache. Sure, he had gone through his fair share of break-ups. But he never dwelt on them too long, always bouncing back after a week or two, innocence and faith in this Love thing still intact.

He was not sure if he was ever in love. And that confirmed his suspicions that he never was in love before.

That familiar anger/jealousy combo settled again in the lower regions of his stomach. He was jealous that she loved _him_. He tried to tell himself that that was all. That he was not ultimately jealous because she _had_ found love. She, of all people, who never knew love at all in her life, so different from his. She, who never returned any of his affections before. Maybe she recognised his innocence, his youth and saw in him what she could have become had she grown up in a loving family. Or maybe she recognised that because of his youth and innocence, he did not actually love her, could not love her just yet, was just going through a silly crush, admiration and boyish lust mistaken for something else. Maybe she recognised in him someone who had never fallen in love before, had never gone through the pain that love puts you through, not yet a man who could love her the way she wanted him to. He wondered if her mother's ultimate, if rather twisted, act of love and sacrifice, killing the man that tormented their lives, had given her the wisdom to see the scope of this unfathomable emotion encased in four simple letters.

He would not admit it just yet, but a sickening feeling in his gut told him that in some metaphorical way, Sara and him were already on their way to committing their own twisted act of love and sacrifice. All to let him know what love is, as quoted by that awful song coming through the open windows from his neighbour's speaker.

He shut the windows and blocked Foreigner from entering his room. He decided to just give in and switched on the air-conditioning, hoping to whatever God or Gods there were up in the sky that his immune system would be strong enough to withstand the germs from his apartment complex's air conditioning vents. He pulled the covers over his body and shut his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Note: **_Short chapter, had to get it out. Thanks to all the loyal readers and reviewers, you know who you are =)_

* * *

Catherine Willows looked up to see the younger brunette saunter in her office, all smiles and a few paper bags in hand. She could not help but let out a small squeal - she recognised the logo on one of the paper bags immediately.

"I know you wanted this bag from that bowling case we worked on..Gil and I saw it on sale in the _Galeries Lafayette_, and thought we'd get it for you. Consider it eight years' worth of birthday presents. And it was significantly cheaper without the import tax and exchange rates -" She cut the younger woman off with a gleeful hug.

So she was back, and she did bring back some Parisian goodies by the look of things, Greg thought as he chanced upon the scene in front of him. He cleared his throat, and tried to find a witty remark to make, but found himself out. Being around her did that to him lately.

"I have the DNA results on the blood sample you found in that breaking and entering case, Cath. And _bonsoir _Madame _Grissom_. Don't I get a hug or a handbag too, _ma chérie_?" He tried for suave, he tried for a light joking banter. He could not bite back the slight sharp edge to his tone, however, and he saw something flicker on Catherine's face. Damnit, he needed to be more careful. They already broke their 'not at the workplace' rule. They could not let anyone else know.

Catherine Willows was not made supervisor for nothing. She may have made many mistakes and dubious choices in her life, but she was one sharp woman. And her experiences has helped shape her and made her no stranger to the range of human emotions, and the complexities of human relationships, unlike her predecessor. And what she was seeing right now, she may not exactly be sure as to what it was, but she did not like the feeling taking root in her gut.

It seemed like harmless and friendly banter to anyone who did not know them. But the tableaux they were making was not a pretty one to Catherine. Greg was smiling, but something in his voice, a slight bite and sarcasm, the almost imperceptible fury in his eyes. Sara was smiling too, but her facial features seemed to have hardened just that tiny bit, her eyes narrowing just a bit more than it should, the almost-tremor in her voice when she said, "Greg", and went over to hug him too. Catherine watch Greg stiffen slightly, the smile on his face faltering for a fraction of a second, and the tension in Sara's shoulders. The hug lasted shorter than she had expected, and they pulled apart, the tension just as subtle as when Greg arrived. Sara walked back to her paper bags and rummaged around, this time going on about her gift for Greg, never once taking her eyes off her task. She found it, gave it to him, a quick smile, and something about finding Nicky and Ray to give them their gifts, and left. Greg nodded to her and Catherine, lifted his hand in a small wave, and went the opposite direction. The curtains fell on their little show, leaving Catherine slightly dumbfounded and with a strange taste of _je ne sais quoi _in the audience.

She was not a gossip, contrary to popular belief. And she was definitely not a busybody. She knew how both Sara and Greg valued their privacy. But she had a feeling that she needed to keep her eye on the two of them, before one, or both, of her friends get hurt.

But judging from their exchange just now, her two colleagues were already well on their path towards self-destruction. The question now was, who else would they drag into their supernova?


	9. Chapter 9

**Note:** none

* * *

It was nearly the end of shift, and Greg was avoiding her like the plague. True, they were both working on different cases; he was on the breaking and entering from yesterday, she was on a new 419 in a parking lot off the Strip. Even then, they would usually have spent some time together, either chilling in the break room, trading ideas, having coffee or a snack. Tonight, she had only seen him once after their meeting at Catherine's, passing him by on the hallway with Nick.

He barely looked at her.

It should not have bothered her at all. She should not even be thinking of him. She had no right to think of him, to feel -what is this exactly that she was feeling for him? She sighed, her shoulders slumped as she sat on the bench in the locker room, facing her reflection in the mirror on her locker door. She remembered being in this position years before, rehearsing a speech she was to give to her now-husband. The face staring back at her was just as desolate, confused and scared. Only older.

Aren't we supposed to grow wiser with age? Why was she then making what could be the stupidest decision in her life so far now? She was behaving like a lustful teenager, following her heart instead of her head...

Her heart instead of her head. If this was following her heart..?

She had arrived back to the lab in high spirits. After her pensive soul-searching, movie-worthy walk in the cemetery, she had gone for dinner with Gil, determined to push aside everything else and concentrate on being his wife. And she did. With all the determination she could muster, she became the woman he loved and married. And she found herself enjoying their time together, and left Paris with enough sorrow to make her believe in her marriage. After all, God had finally granted her what she had hoped, begged, desired for for the past ten years.

They had also spent an enjoyable afternoon picking out gifts for their friends back in Vegas, and she was excited to see their reactions. She knew Catherine would love the bag, and although it was a bit pricey, they both could afford it. The look on the older woman's face was enough to justify the price tag. Even though Ray was much more reserved and cordial in his reactions, she knew he was surprised and touched to receive a textbook on the current forensic methods and technologies in France. It was not easy to be the new guy on the team, especially when the one he was replacing left him such big shoes to fill. Nick's big bear hug was expected, but the look on his face was priceless, when he opened the box to see a couple of french adult DVDs and other 'spankables'. The lab had a fun time teasing him about it the entire night, and she hoped that he was not secretly mad at her, and that her other gift of a designer tie and cuff links was enough to make up for the embarrassment.

Greg was the only one who had yet to open his gift.

His was the most difficult. She knew him well enough to know what his likes are. Yet she found herself buying the most impersonal, un-Greg like gift she could find. She could not let anyone on their secret, and every other item she found seemed to hint some way or another at their relationship. In the end, she got him a fountain pen, sans engraving, earning a raised eyebrow from Grissom.

"You got me a fucking fountain pen? Thanks, Sara. I guess those nights you spent sucking my dick and screaming my name clearly meant as much to you as it did to me." She jumped as he hissed softly, caustic, in her ear.

She did not hear him come in, lost in thought as she was. She had not felt his anger until he brought it with him into the locker room. She opened her mouth, wanting to explain, when she heard the click of a woman's heeled pumps coming their way. She shut it again, and got up to her locker just as Catherine came in. Sara grabbed her purse, uttered a quick goodbye to the both of them, and left.

Catherine's suspicion rose a tiny bit, and she eyed her retreating form with slight curiosity and dread. She turned back to Greg, and decided to pretend as though she suspected nothing, knew nothing. Well, that part was true. She had no idea what she was supposed to suspect or not know.

"So Greg, what did Sara get you?" Catherine hoped it sounded natural, innocent, normal.

"A pen." And with that he grabbed his satchel bag, gave her a quick peck on the cheek goodbye, and left.

Wow. OK, this was not just a spat between two close friends. It had to be much worse than she thought it was.


	10. Chapter 10

**Note:** _In secret, between the shadow and the soul_

* * *

He half-hoped to see her at the parking lot, leaning against his car, as she was wont to do. He really had hoped she was waiting for him, to argue, to explain, to talk. But the lot was empty, there was no one near his car, and her's was no longer in the parking lot. She had left, without a word, without his explanation, without a care. He kicked his wheel in frustration, and regretted it immediately when a passing lab tech gave him a look, his foot throbbing. He needed to get a hold of himself, the last thing he wanted was to cause a scene.

He drove around aimlessly, a hand on the wheel and the other holding a cigarette, his ten years or so in Vegas still not enough to familiarise him with the suburbs. He had the music turned off, Marilyn Manson was not exactly going to calm him down. He should really have just been a rock star. Booze, drugs and busty chicks for dinner every night. No Sara, no cry.

About eight weeks ago, they had started their affair. The first day she arrived back in Vegas was also the first day she took him to her bed. It had been only two months since the start of them. Only six weeks of being lovers. In that six weeks, they've managed to have sex in the lab, share a bottle of wine - he remembered that night, the wine was delicious but she was sweeter. And now, Catherine might know. What other rules of theirs would they break along the way? And how much time was there in that 'along the way', how long will this last? Two months was a short time, but two months of deception and subterfuge was enough to drive the usually honest, Mr. Straightedge Greg somewhat insane.

He was so excited when he finally bedded her, he felt like a child who got away with stealing from a candy store. Triumphant, guilty, but oh he so wanted it! And he did not know how much, till then. Sure, he had tried asking her out before, flirted with her, but no more so than with any other female colleague. He had been petty and jealous when she dated that EMT guy. But he got over that, and never pushed her for more than friendship after that. Over the years, however, he knew she had grown on him, become a large part of his life. It happened without him knowing, without either of them noticing. He remembered recognising her just by her scent, and nothing had smelled sweeter than when he caught a whiff of her, lying down on the road with his body and self-belief broken and beaten down. He knew then, she meant more to him than even he would let on.

And now this. He had really fooled himself to believe that he can be a participant in this. That he can separate sex from love. He told himself, it was just passion. Passion, not love. Two mutually exclusive emotions. How naive, how dumb could he get? Sure, it works for other people, maybe. He remembered that weird case with the swingers' party. But what made him think that both he and Sara could pull it off? Two friends who already love and care for each other, taking their relationship to the next level, but denying the presence of romance. Does that make it less of an intimate relationship, does that make it not love? He could see the same questions, the same struggles and fears he was facing in her eyes too. They both could sense each other lingering on longer than they should when they said goodbye, staying over longer and later each night, the growing intimacy, fervour and sorrow in the sex.

He threw his cigarette out the window and drove as fast as he legally could towards her house. He was going to break their penultimate rule, they will talk about this. What do they care, what do the other rules matter, they've already broken Rule Number One.

Never, ever fall in love with each other.


	11. Chapter 11

**Note:** _Sorry for the spam guys, I just had a bit more time and desire to write today. I think I've reached the end of my writing spree for now though, me churning up more chapters will end up being just that...thanks for the reviews and I hope this one will satisfy you guys as well =)_

* * *

She knew he was coming before she heard his engine purring to a stop, his car door slamming, his quick footsteps up the stairs, and the knock on the door. She knew he would come, guns ablaze, ready for confrontation. She had seen the build-up over the past weeks. She had seen his hopes rise with his anger, fall with his disappointment. She stood by the kitchen counter, tightened her robe around her La Perla-clad body, and swallowed her wine. The good Burgundy she had brought home from Paris. She poured herself another glass. One more for courage.

"Sara! Open the door!" He was shouting now, the persistent knocking turning into loud raps.

She opened the door, his hand still in the air, ready to knock for the third time.

She had never before seen such rage or passion in his eyes. His whole body was tense, and his hair was slightly dishevelled. She caught a whiff of cigarette smoke, the crisp notes of his cologne. Before he could say anything, she handed him a glass of wine, and walked to her room. He took her invitation, and closed the door.

He noted the absence of the ring on her finger.

It was good wine, but he could not taste a damn thing. His eyes never left her as he knocked it back in a gulp, and slammed the delicate glass onto the nearest counter top he could find. It shattered into pieces.

She did not look the least surprised to see him there, nor frightened by his crass display of anger. She looked as though she had been waiting, expecting him to show up. She stood now at the doorway of her bedroom, a questioning look in her eyes. Are you coming in?

All the words that had crowded his tongue, all the thoughts he had meant to say, all his bravado, to come in here, grab her by the shoulders and force her to say it, say that she loved him, where were they now? _God, Jesus, Thor, Freya Queen of Valkyries, anything divine, have mercy, give me my fucking courage back in the face of this woman.._

He found himself closing the door behind him for the second time in five minutes.

She stood in front of him, in that cream-coloured robe he liked on her so much. Her arms folded across her chest, her lips pursed together, her hair in soft waves and her eyes on the floor. She looked up at him. She matched his anger with a look of defeat.

"Kiss me, Greg."

He was going to say no, goddamnit, not before they talked this over, not before he got some sort of assurance from her that he meant something. But the hoarseness of her voice, the soft, trembling way she said it, the urgency that underlined his name. He never could say no to that, no matter to what Christian, Norse or Atheistic God he prayed otherwise to. She had him by his balls, damn her.

She studied his face, saw the conflict in his eyes, and took a step back. He seized her by her arm and pulled her flush to him. She tried to look away, but he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.

"Not till you can look me in the eye, and tell me that you don't love me at all, Sara."

She tried to move her head a fraction of a space downwards, left, right, but his hand held her in place. She was going to have bruises on her jaw tomorrow. She looked him in the eye, and said nothing.

They both waited.

He let his hand slide down her neck, feeling the warm skin, her rapid pulse, down to her shoulders. He could feel a strap of a camisole under the thin fabric. He ran his hands down her torso, to her waist. He could feel the bumps from something lacy underneath the silk. It felt foreign to him. He pushed her slightly away from him as he undid the sash to her robe, and pushed it off her shoulders onto the floor.

So she had been expecting him, anticipating his visit after all._ I suppose she did get me more than just a pen._

Sara had never felt so naked in all her life, as she stood there, in her new, expensive lingerie, in front of Greg. She had bought it in the duty-free shop at the airport, without Gil knowing, without her ring on. Now, she stood there in front of him, feeling pretty much like what she assumed a virgin bride would be feeling on her wedding day. Vulnerable, exposed, and scared out of her wits, about to go past the point of no return.

Once again, she asked him to kiss her.

Greg was not often speechless. He had been told at least once by pretty much everyone in the lab to shut up. But right now, his thoughts were running miles per minute while the rest of him was stuck somewhere on the starting line. He did the only thing he could.

The kiss was soft, slow, gentle, and nothing like they've ever tried with each other. She did not go straight to his belt, he did not try to rip her new lingerie off. He slid one hand into her hair, slowly playing with her soft curls as though feeling them for the first time. His other hand stroking the curve of her waist and hips, lightly, the soft mesh of the black lace under his fingertips. She had her hands underneath his shirt, up his chest, his shoulders, down his back. She wanted to feel every inch of skin, every curve and plane, every muscle, scar and freckle. She tugged gently on his t-shirt, and they broke the kiss as he pulled his shirt over his head.

They looked at each other for a moment, the same understanding in each others' eyes. He cupped her face in his hands and pulled her back into the kiss.

They were as gentle as they had never been with each other, touching, kissing, caressing, as though this was their first time together. They felt no need to claw, to scratch, to bite, to mark their territory. They were not here today to stake a claim.

He made to reach for the condoms he knew she kept on her bedside table. She pulled his hand back to her body.

They were largely silent the entire time, letting out only quiet gasps or the soft sounds of their breathing, panting. They could hear the afternoon traffic on the street, the voices of children coming home from school, even the rise and fall of conversation from her neighbour's. They could hear their hearts beating. There was no need for moans, screams, growls. He knew she was his, she knew he was hers. And when she reached her peak, she looked into his eyes and let his name out in a whisper. He took it, and silently, he etched her name in his heart.

For the first time in their two-month long affair, they made love.

They spent a few moments with him inside her, she clinging to him, exchanging soft kisses. She found herself missing him, when he pulled out of her. So this is how it's gonna be.

They lay in each others' arms, the afternoon sun peeking in from her curtains. He stroked her hair, placed a gentle kiss on her temple. She traced her fingers on his stomach. They stared at the wall in front of them, neither wanting to say a word. It was when she stifled a yawn that they both realised how tired they really were. She rolled onto her side, her back towards him. He looked at her bare shoulders and back, and made to move. She turned around, a hand on his arm, eyes glistening, a single word on her lips.

"Stay."


	12. Chapter 12

**Note:** _stuck._

* * *

He stayed, and left the next morning.

He would continue staying the night for four out of seven nights a week, for the next three weeks. He would wake up, kiss her on the forehead, put his clothes on. She would give him a sad smile most days. Sometimes, they would make love before he left, after which, they would spend a while cuddling, talking, laughing, like any other couple. She would cling on to him just that much longer on those mornings. He would then kiss her softly on the lips, whisper a 'See you at work', and then leave. He would lock her door with the spare key she gave him after the third night he stayed over. He would absentmindedly play with that key all the way to his car. He would then drive back home in silence, with enough time to spare for a shower, a quick breakfast and a shift in personality. In less than two hours, he needed to be Greg the CSI and co-worker, not Greg the lover who stayed the night with his married colleague.

On the drive to his home and to work, he would grip the steering wheel too hard and crank the volume on whichever head-banging rock CD he had in his car too loud.

She, on the other hand, thought it would get easier as the days went by, to see him go, closing the door softly behind him, using the key she had given him after the third night. She would watch him leave her room, leave her naked, wrapped only in sheets drenched in his scent mingled with hers, the remnants of their sex. He always woke up before she did. Some days, she would pull him back to her side, forcing him to stay longer than he should. She loved those days. It made their..thing..feel less like an affair, more like a real relationship. She would then think back and wonder, when it was that her need had shifted from sex to companionship to Greg.

She had given him a spare key.

With that thought, she would rouse herself out of bed, into the shower. She would emerge from the shower as Sara Sidle, CSI, co-worker and former mentor to Greg Sanders, married to Gil Grissom. She would drive to work in complete silence.

They would meet in the crime lab, each arriving separately in different cars at different times, with Greg always arriving later than her. She would exchange pleasantries with her colleagues, talk to Nick if he was there early. Sometimes she would find Ray instead, and would make small talk with the enigmatic man. If she was working on an ongoing case, she would pour herself a cup of coffee, and delve straight into work. Otherwise, she would pour herself a cup of coffee, sit in the break room with either a journal or the newspaper, talking to whoever else was there while waiting for assignments.

She would grip her coffee cup tighter when she hears his quick footsteps heading towards the break room. She knew his routine by heart. Drop in the break room for coffee, black, no sugar. Hang around and chat in the break room, usually with Nick, Henry or Hodges while sipping his drink. Finish it before it gets tepid, wash the cup. Carry on his conversations with the boys till it was officially time for work before starting on his on-going cases. He used to take off his suit jacket before heading to work, but seemed to have shed that habit around the time she was gone from his life.

She found it ironic that he used to comment on Brass always being in a suit. For he never seemed to wear anything else but nowadays. Well, without the tie, of course. She remembered his first court case, his first suit-and-tie. He felt like a dork. She thought he looked..professional. Adorable, really. Now, she looked forward to him coming in for work, quietly debonair in his suit jacket and shirt. Seeing him with that much clothes on fascinated her. They spent so much of their time together alone, skin on skin that this new, suited-up, fully-clothed Greg became more of a delicious mystery. Here he was, casually flirting with the female techs, animatedly talking about sports and girls with his male colleagues. He in his suit, all for the world to see, hiding the scratches, bites and other marks of their affair. Cloaking their new relationship with the attire of the consummate professional, the air of the friendly charmer. It was clear as the proverbial crystal to her what she saw when she bumped into him one day in PD with Catherine and Brass, surrounded by police officers, clerks, complainants, suspects, criminals and other riff-raffs.

Despite their silent, non-confession of..of needing each other..this public Greg in the suit will never be hers.


	13. Chapter 13

**Note:** _still stuck._

* * *

The thing with affairs is that they don't usually start out of nowhere. The thing with affairs is that they are unavoidably messy. The thing with affairs is that the longer they continue, the harder it is to keep them a secret. The thing with affairs is that they always last longer than they should, and never end when you want it to end.

The thing with affairs is that everyone involved always inevitably gets hurt.

The thing with Sara and Greg was that they've seen this happen in their line of work over and over again. Cheating partners, jealous spouses and jilted lovers were almost always part of the equation in a fair share of violent crimes in Vegas. Throughout their years in law enforcement, it has never ceased to amaze and shock them, the violent extent to which these raw human emotions can end up in. Spending years behind the two-way mirror, on the judging end, however, probably had given them the false sense of security, that the effects of longing, love, anger, jealousy will not affect them.

Catherine knew first hand what it was like to be on the bitter end of an affair. And as she recalled, so did Sara. Which was why she was perplexed and puzzled beyond belief when the pieces of their relationship started forming and fitting together in her mind. She was not even halfway certain that that was what was going on here, but she trusted her guts and her instincts.

Then again, she was caught unawares and in complete shock, like everyone else, by Gil's and Sara's secret relationship. So maybe, there was a chance that she was wrong...

She was brought out of her thoughts by Brass' rather chipper voice, as she walked in to PD. He seemed to be in a good mood today, and so did the young CSI beside him.

"Hey Catherine. So we've got the suspect in custody, and things are looking good. He was all tryin'a play it smooth and cool, until we laid the evidence out one by one in front of him. Never saw a guy broke into a sweat faster in my life. We're taking a break though, guy finally got smart and lawyered up. Should be here in the next half hour."

Jim Brass was as sardonic as ever, and no matter how grave the situation, having him around always made her feel that much more safer. His deadpan style of humour was always something to look forward to when they dealt with weird and wacky cases. Catherine gave him a smile, as they stood in the corridor of the interrogation room, waiting for the lawyer. Well, at least one of her old friends was still here, still the same, still a constant in her life.

Too many things had changed in the past two years, and she felt like she was finally getting her footing after having the rug pulled violently out under her feet. It all started with Sam's murder. And after that, it was just one twist after another turn - Sara and Gil's relationship, Sara leaving, Gil's depression and burn out, Riley, Warrick's death, Gil's second bout of burn-out and resignation, his replacement Ray, her promotion, Lindsey's upcoming graduation, Sara coming back. Yes, a lot of these events don't concern her directly, but she was still an actor in this tragedy that the crime lab seemed to be so fond of playing. And now, if she was right, she was going to be right smack in the disaster that this bizarre love triangle will bring.

She discreetly eyed the younger man standing in front of her right now, as he talked rather animatedly about 'the latest game' with Brass. He seemed pretty excited, his hands gesticulating, his tone of voice light. Yet, beneath all that, he had that look they all were familiar with, the relief, resignation and dulled excitement of a veteran that came with closing yet another case. He was jaded, she could see that. His years of being in the field had taken its toll on his former jovial self. He looked tired, eye bags under his eyes and with day-old stubble. He was usually always clean-shaven, no matter how hard he was working. He looked older, in a muted jacket-and-shirt combo, with dark pants and shoes. His hair had lost their gravity-defying styles right around the time when he started as a CSI, and has never reached those heights since. But his eyes still retained that sparkle and life in them, until recently. He hardly smiled his bright, goofy grins anymore, barely traded jibes with Nick or Hodges. Hardly flirted with her, or any other woman in the lab for that matter. As she ran through this, she saw, despite his outwardly jovial manner, his jaw tighten and his lips pulled into a slight frown, his eyes clouding over as he looked up at something.

Or rather someone.

Catherine felt her gut tighten as she saw her walk into PD.

She saw how the younger woman's steps stopped just for a split second when she saw Greg, before she picked up her pace and walked towards them. She flashed them a smile that did not reach up to her eyes, and said hello. She stopped for a small chat, nothing wrong with that except for the way she angled her body to face Brass and Catherine more than Greg. The stiffness in her posture. The measured tone of her voice. She had been seeing this change come over both of them quite a lot lately, whenever they were in each other's vicinity. The tension was barely perceptible.

She would have thought it was just a feud between two former friends, had she not seen the sadness and longing that was in their eyes. Or the secrecy in their smile to each other. Seen how Greg looked at Sara one time too many during their short conversation. Or how Sara's hand lingered on Greg's shoulder a moment too long before she took her leave and searched for Vartan about her case. The resignation in Greg's eyes as he looked at her retreating form. The sharp questioning look Brass gave her when their eyes met.

So Brass saw it too. She felt her shoulders sag with that confirmation. She hated being a party to something this messy, but when all involved are not only her subordinates but her friends as well... She prayed to God that she was wrong, but it was harder to put her suspicions to rest now with what she had, or rather had not seen.

Sara's left hand, that had lingered too long on Greg's shoulder, was without her wedding ring.


End file.
